A Renaissance Affair
by Chicklit
Summary: Sara's attempt to get a life outside the lab leads to an interesting discovery about Grissom. Midseason 5, post Unbearable. GSR. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

A Renaissance Affair

By Chicklit

Chapter 1

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

_What was I thinking?_

The Harvard alumni event at the Guggenheim Hermitage Museum had seemed like a good idea when I signed up, but now, looking around the room and not seeing a single familiar face, I'm beginning to re-evaluate my 2005 campaign to 'get a life.' I find myself secretly hoping for a page from Grissom so I can escape. Even the thought of dumpster diving with Sofia doesn't sound so unappealing. Hell, I'd probably agree to a decomp in the desert.

"Can I help you?" A young blonde smiles up from the registration table.

"Sara Sidle? I should be on the list."

The woman flips through a stack of sheets until she nears the end of the alphabet. "Here you are." She crosses out my name with a blue felt pen, then hands me a small packet. "The enclosed brochure outlines the exhibit and Professor Kaplan's lecture notes. Be sure to fill out this badge with your name and your favorite artist."

Favorite artist? I must look confused, because she feels the need to explain further.

"It's an ice breaker. You know, to help facilitate conversation?"

Yes, I know what an ice breaker is. I think it's already been established that I attended Harvard. But I figure being bitchy won't earn me any new friends so I just smile and say, "Got it. Thanks." I quickly grab an indelible marker from the table and write my name on the sticker provided. I'm still stuck on favorite artist, though. After a minute I hastily scribble a name and then hand the pen back to the woman. Taking a deep breath, I walk into the room.

The crowd is pretty eclectic. A mix of young and old in various modes of dress. I actually wore a skirt this evening. It's a dark floral number that hits just below the knee. I've topped it off with a deep purple camisole and dark denim jacket. Slightly flirty, but not overtly so. I'm happy that I seem to fit in, yet vaguely annoyed that I care.

A drink is definitely in order, if only to give me something to do before the lecture starts, so I amble over to the line at the bar. I busy myself with the packet of information the woman at the registration booth provided while I wait for the line to move. The lecture actually looks interesting. _Changing Interpretations of Adam and Eve in Renaissance Art._ I really enjoyed the art history survey course that I took in college, and I find myself looking forward to a new spin on old material. The scientist in me always appreciates a new hypothesis.

Snippets of conversation drift by as I skim through the exhibition notes. There are old friends gossiping about classmates. Casual acquaintances debating the current political climate. The inevitable clusters of impassioned young art majors enthralled to be in the same room as Italian Masters. I can't seem to tune out the two men in line ahead of me, though. Late fifties, tweed jackets, faux British accents. I keep a small smile plastered on my face while I sneer inwardly. The keep using the word 'preternatural' in conversation and it's really beginning to annoy me. I decide if they aren't on staff at Harvard they desperately want to be. Pompous fools.

"They give us all a bad name, don't you think?"

Startled, I turn to find a tall man with dark brown hair smiling down at me. I peg his age as mid-forties, although his wide grin makes him seem much younger.

He nods toward the irritating men in tweed. "Them… They pretty much define the haughty stereotype."

I have to agree and reward the man with a genuine smile. "Sadly, stereotypes, like clichés, are often based in fact."

"True." He fearlessly sticks out his hand. "I'm Mike."

My hand clasps his. "Sara."

"So, Sara, I see that you like the Classics."

"Excuse me?"

"Your favorite artist. Bernini. Excellent choice." He nods his head, and I can't help but feel as though I've just aced a test. "Not a Renaissance artist, mind you, but still an excellent choice."

"You're a fan as well?"

"Who isn't? I think the only people who don't like him are the ones who've never heard of him." His eyes glimmer. "Favorite piece?"

For once I don't hesitate. "Pluto and Persephone." That piece called to me from the moment I first saw it back in college. Pluto's abduction of Persephone was evoked with rage and power and fury. The artist had converted cold marble to raw, liquid energy. And yet, for all of its violence, the work was infused with a sort of indelible grace. There was beauty and nobility in Persephone's struggle against her captor.

"Powerful work."

My companion is eying me speculatively, as if my selection has revealed a facet of my personality that intrigues him. I've never bothered to psychoanalyze why I'm drawn to the piece and I'm not about to start now. I quickly steer the conversation to safer ground and ask him to defend his own choice of artist. Effortlessly, our discussion continues as the line inches forward. Mike is an engaging conversationalist with a sardonic sense of humor that puts me immediately at ease.

Much later, drinks in hand, we wander through the exhibition. Mike is quite knowledgeable and can converse easily about the paintings that fill the galleries. An almost foreign emotion wells up inside me and I'm shocked to discover that I'm actually having fun. "I'm glad I came," I blurt out, and I am surprised at the admission.

"I'm glad you came, too," returns my companion.

"No, I…." I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. "… It's just, I've been dreading this all week, and now here I am, and I'm actually happy to be here. It's not what I expected."

Mike's facial expression waffles between flattered and concerned. "If you were dreading it, why did you bother to come?"

This nice man does not need to know my life history so I opt for an abbreviated version of the truth. "I made a New Year's resolution to start participating in activities completely outside of work. When I got the e:mail about the event here I thought it fit the bill."

"Doesn't explain the dreading part."

"I majored in Physics… This isn't exactly my element." Mike doesn't seem to get it. "I had visions of people dressed in black, filled with angst, debating glazing techniques. You know, _art_ types."

"Ah…" He leans back and appraises me with a cocked brow. "_Art_ types. That would be daunting indeed for a scientist. And yet you came… I'm impressed by your fortitude."

"That's one word for it."

He laughs out loud. "So tell me, Sara the Physics Major, what do you do when you're not out bashing art historians?"

Before I can formulate a reply a flustered RuPaul clone appears at Mike's side. He's garbed in unrelieved black and positively reeks of clove cigarettes. "Professor Kaplan! Where have you been? We simply _must_ begin the lecture now."

_Professor Kaplan_? My mouth is agape and I'm too stunned to close it. I've been standing around tossing out disparaging comments about art types to the evening's guest lecturer? A renowned PhD? A tenured Harvard professor? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That decomp in the desert is sounding better and better.

_Page me, Grissom. Page me now._

Mike is smirking, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Just a minute, Keith. I'm having an illuminating discussion with Miss Sara Sidle here about art types. I find myself compelled to improve her jaded opinion of us."

Keith clearly has no sense of humor. He's eying me like I'm the snake in the Garden of Eden. "Two minutes," he concedes, and then stalks into the adjoining lecture room.

Cringing inwardly, I meet Mike's amused stare. "I owe you an apology."

"Absolutely not. It's actually refreshing to speak with someone outside of the art community. I love my colleagues, but they can get stale sometimes. You know what I mean?"

I do, and that surprises me. "Yeah…"

"Look, I do need to go inside and prep a few things before we get started. You'll stick around for the lecture?"

"Wouldn't miss it." I smile sheepishly.

"Afterwards, would you like to go grab a drink? We can continue our discussion."

I take a reflexive step backwards. "Uh…" It's one thing to step outside my comfort zone and attend an alumni mixer, it's entirely another to go out on a date. With all of the unresolved turmoil in my life that is a recipe for disaster. Not to mention the effect it would have on a certain emotionally unavailable entomologist. Grissom and I have forged a fragile bond these past few months and I am loath to do anything to upset the balance.

"It's not a date." He seems quite emphatic on this point. "Just drinks."

"Well, gee, when you put it like that…"

He leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. "Look… At the risk of sounding desperate… I've got a serious girlfriend back in Boston. I'm here for six months as a visiting professor at UNLV. You are the first person I've met who reminds me of the friends I left behind at home. It would be nice to go out and talk about something other than…. _glazing_ techniques."

While his imploring tone is persuasive, I'm not convinced. Vegas is full of charming men with unsavory agendas. Hank Peddigrew comes immediately to mind. "What's your girlfriend's name?" I ask the question quietly and watch his face intently.

"Caroline." He smiles and intones the name reverently.

I decide to take him at face value. I only hope that one day a man invokes my name the very same way. Mike isn't using friendship as a ploy to get me back to his place to 'see his etchings.' He's genuinely looking for a friend.

And so, I realize, am I. "You're on."


	2. Chapter 2

A Renaissance Affair

By Chicklit

Chapter 2

Still buzzing from my non-date with Mike, I breeze into Grissom's office a half hour before shift. I find him seated at his desk filling out paperwork. The pile isn't too large which means he's probably been tackling it for some time.

"Hey." I take up residence in the chair across from his desk. "Making progress?"

A muffled grunt is his only response as he scrawls his signature across the bottom of a page and flips the sheet into a large manila folder. I squelch a laugh as I observe his utter and complete lack of enthusiasm for the administrative aspects of his job.

"How was your dinner with Sofia?"

"Professional," he grumbles, peering at me intently from beneath his glasses. "How was your alumni event?"

"A blast, actually. Who knew?" I feel myself smiling broadly at the memory of the evening. "I met the professor who was giving the lecture. Mike Kendall. In addition to curating the exhibit at the Guggenheim, turns out he's teaching a class at UNLV on High Renaissance art. I'm going to audit the evening section for fun."

My announcement seems to have rendered Grissom speechless. He sits back in his chair and simply stares at me.

I stare right back.

"I didn't know that you were interested in art," he finally offers.

"Well, I attended the lecture, didn't I?"

"Of course. I just meant… When we talked yesterday you didn't sound very excited about going." He fiddles restlessly with the pen in his hand. "I didn't realize you were interested in the actual material. I thought you just wanted to do something away from the Lab."

"I did. I _do_. But I actually like art. I loved the class I took in college… It was such a complete escape from the science department. As I wandered around the exhibit tonight I realized that I actually missed being around it."

Grissom is staring at me with the same expression Mike did when I mentioned that _Pluto and Persephone_ is my favorite Bernini statue. As if I've revealed an interesting facet of my personality that gives him new insight into my character.

"Is this a problem?" I can't imagine for the life of me why it would be, but with Grissom one never knows.

"On the contrary. I'm quite pleased."

"Pleased?" I echo. Will I _ever_ understand this man?

"Yes." Grissom folds his hands in front of him and gives me his full, undivided attention. "It's something else we have in common."

I chew my lower lip and regard my boss quietly. He's giving me the look. The one that makes my palms sweat and my breath hitch. The one that promises some day he'll know what to do about _this_. The focused energy behind his cerulean gaze is heady stuff. Unbidden, a tiny bubble of hope wells up inside me. Is today finally the day?

"Hubba hubba!"

Perhaps not. I swivel to find Greg standing next to me, unabashedly admiring the expanse of leg peeking out from beneath the hem of my skirt.

"I realize that HR would kick my butt for saying this, but I really don't care. You are a _fine_ specimen of a woman."

"Ah, thanks, Greg. I think." I'm always flattered by the attention, but it's extremely awkward when he makes these observations in front of Grissom. And he's been doing it with some regularity lately. The last thing I need is for Grissom to think that Greg and I are dating. Or even _thinking_ about dating. I sneak a peek at Grissom and find him staring at Greg with his "kids today – what can you do?" expression.

Greg seems oblivious to Grissom's reaction and continues his mild flirtation. "Are you sure our boy-girl Lego doesn't click?"

I laugh. How can I not? "Yeah, I'm sure."

He doesn't think I get the William Gibson reference, but I do, so we begin dissecting the finer points of his latest novel. I have to give Greg kudos for his taste in literature. I thought he only read magazines like _Details_ and _Blender_.

"Greg!" Grissom barks like an angry parent. I wonder if he's upset at the flirting, or the fact that we're having a discussion about an author he's probably never heard of. "This is a place of _work_."

Greg glances at his watch and offers a cheeky grin. "Not for another twenty minutes. Shift hasn't started yet."

Oh, Lordy. Grissom is turning red and a tic is forming in his right eye. Time to intervene. I calmly stand up and grasp Greg's arm. "I'm going to the locker room to change…"

"Nooooo…." He looks pained.

"… and then I'll meet you in the break room for assignments." I give Grissom my trademark wink and make a hasty exit.

Greg makes to follow, but is stopped at the crisp sound of Grissom's voice.

"She's not a toy, Greg."

Shocked, I stop in the hallway and turn. Where did _that_ come from?

Greg gives me a considering look, then turns his attention to Grissom. "No, she's not." It's like all of the sudden he's not Grissom's subordinate, or his unruly son… He's his equal.

Unprepared to deal with the subtext of their conversation, I quickly head for the locker room. I'm not sure what's more strange. The fact that Grissom chastised Greg for flirting with me or the fact that Greg stood up to him.

When I return to the break room several minutes later I'm accosted by the rich smell of Greg's latest luxury coffee blend. I don't know the coffee's origin. I certainly don't know what type of bean it is. And I don't want to know if it was excreted by a rodent in Southeast Asia. It's smells fabulous and that's enough for me.

Greg is standing by the coffee machine, filling his thermos directly from the drip.

"Peace offering for Grissom?" I ask, handing him an empty mug.

He takes the mug and rolls his eyes. "Am I that obvious?" He's looking kind of like a bedraggled puppy, with his spiky hair and sheepish expression.

"Yes, but that's why we love you." I put a sisterly hand on his shoulder and give him a good pat. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?"

"Not really." He switches my mug with his thermos and then reaches up to pull another mug from a nearby cabinet. We stand in silence watching the coffee trickle down. Greg keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot while he guzzles coffee from his thermos. Clearly, he's agitated about something.

"It's just…." He turns to me and tries to force words out of his mouth. "I want…" Then he just stares at me, like he's imploring me to do something. And it hits me like a Teflon-coated bullet. This flirtation isn't mild and to him it's not a joke. His eyes are filled with frustration and longing.

Oh, my God. Omigod. Is this how I look to Grissom? I stare at Greg and I see myself, and suddenly the room is too small, too claustrophobic, for both of us. Every conversation with Grissom, every innuendo, is immediately reevaluated and the results are not in my favor. I picture myself murmuring, 'Greg, I don't know what to do about this,' and I am nauseated.

My world might be tilting on its axis but I won't do to Greg what Grissom has done to me. I won't leave him in the dark, wondering, and I sure as Hell won't string him along. He deserves better. I look around and make sure that there's no one around to hear what I'm about to say. Thankfully, the coast is clear. "Greg," My voice is soothing and filled with regret. "You know that I love you, right?"

He nods, but won't look me in the eye.

"But I'm not _in_ love with you," I clarify. "I'm sorry if anything I've said or done has ever given you that impression."

"It hasn't. You'd never do that. I know where things stand, it's just that sometimes… Being smart, doing well in school, we're always told that if we work hard enough we can get what we want." He takes a healthy gulp of coffee. "Life doesn't work that way, though, does it?"

"No," I agree philosophically, "It doesn't."

Something in my voice must sound like commiseration. Our eyes meet, and I know that he knows about Grissom. He's probably always known. He gives me a wry grin. I shrug. Yeah, sometimes, life just sucks.

We stand together, leaning against the counter, lost in thought.

I wish I could care about Greg that way. Life would be a lot simpler. Intellectually, I know that he would be good for me. But physical attraction is a chemical, intangible, irrational thing and it doesn't care about what is good or right. My parents are proof of that.

Once again I'm assaulted with thoughts of Grissom and how I must appear to him. I feel nervous, unsure and unsettled. What if I've imagined it all? When he sent that damn plant, was he just trying to keep his team intact? When he talked of beauty, was it an empirical observation? When he interrogated Lurie, was he talking hypothetically to force a confession? Worse, was he talking about someone else? I look back and realize that Grissom has only ever offered me his friendship. He's given it freely and he's been very supportive in his own introverted way. I'm the one who has pushed for more and put him in an awkward position. Earlier tonight, sitting in his office, I'd been so sure we were on the brink of something before Greg waltzed in. So sure. Was I wrong?

I laugh inwardly. If Grissom had given me the speech I just gave Greg I'd have gone nuclear, railed at him for sending false signals and stormed off in a fiery ball of anger. It would have been a spectacular show. Career limiting, but spectacular. I find myself humbled by Greg's graciousness. He's a better person than I am.

I look over and find him staring ahead with that wry expression tattooed to his face.

"Are we okay?" I finally ask. I hope so, because I can't imagine a world without Greg's friendship and support.

"Yeah, copasetic." he gives me a grin and taps my mug with his thermos. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

"So, now that we've got that settled, want to come over to my place later and play Legos?"

We laugh so hard there are tears streaming down our faces. This is how Grissom finds us, minutes later, when he arrives with assignment slips in hand. His eyes dart to mine, looking for answers, and I give him an apologetic smile. "Sorry." Actually, I'm not sorry at all. I laugh harder.

"Did I miss something?" His eyes dart back and forth between Greg and me.

"Location joke," Greg replies. "Had to be there."

Grissom nods. I expect him to be annoyed again but he just stands there eyeing us speculatively. I scour his features for the slightest suggestion of jealousy, something to prove that I haven't imagined the subtext lurking beneath our decade-long flirtation, but his face is an impenetrable mask.

Greg takes the opportunity to present a cup of his special blend, prepared exactly the way Grissom likes it. "Coffee, your Excellency?"

Grissom takes the proffered mug and gives it a quick sniff. His eyes light up with pleasure. "Thank you , Greg."

This is as close as Grissom usually gets to giving an apology and Greg basks in the implied approval.

I'm pleased to see that Grissom has decided to partner with Greg tonight, which suggests he feels poorly about his earlier behavior and is trying to make amends. Or, Greg's caffeinated bribe was successful. Regardless, they take off to investigate something suspicious at Mandalay Bay while I stay behind to process evidence for an ongoing investigation. Sofia and I spend the better part of the evening taking apart a Ford Expedition.

Man, those cars are _large_.


	3. Chapter 3

A Renaissance Affair

By Chicklit

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

Disclaimers: The usual. Don't own these characters. Wish I did.

Sincere thanks to those of you who have reviewed, both on and off line! I really appreciate the support.

Chapter 3

I've changed my mind. I don't love Greg. In fact, I'm not even sure I like him any more. He's an annoying punk who reminds of this boy named Bruce who lived in one of my foster homes. Greg has weird hair. Bruce had weird tattoos. Otherwise, the similarities are frightening.

We're in the Denali driving back to the lab. Shift is over, I'm tired and I want to go home. It's been a long night filled with dead bodies and the kind of suspects who make me wonder if the human race will even be in existence 500 years from now.

"So, how come we don't do team dinners any more?" Greg asks, breaking the silence in the car.

It's a relatively innocuous question. We haven't had a team dinner since Ecklie worked his managerial magic and separated the night shift. Grissom has been having individual dinners with folks like Brass and Sofia, but neither Greg nor I have been the recipient of an invitation. And let's be honest – I pretty much killed any chance of ever receiving a dinner invitation from Grissom when I asked him out. If he were to do it, it would mean something. We both know it and therefore avoid the topic entirely.

Grissom is driving. He keeps his eyes on the road and after a minute replies, "Good question, Greg." From the tone of his voice I can tell he's actually thinking about it, not just brushing Greg off. Is he so oblivious to the world around him that he isn't even aware that we don't have team dinners any more? Yes, we do the occasional breakfast after shift, emphasis on the word _occasional_. But not dinner. It occurs to me that Nick was usually the one who picked the restaurant and guilted the team into attending.

"We could have dinner tonight, before shift starts," Greg continues.

And this is why I no longer like Greg. He knows it's Tuesday and tonight is my first Renaissance art history class. Moreover, he knows darn well that Mike and I are having dinner beforehand. Greg and I had a nice, long discussion on the topic about two hours ago while we were waiting for Grissom to finish with an interview. I'd like to give Greg a solid kick to the shin to shut him up but I can't. He's in the front seat with Grissom. I'm in the back. Trapped.

I know he's up to something. The question is… What?

Greg turns around and gives me a smile. I give him my most intimidating death glare. Unimpressed, he just smirks and turns back to Grissom. "Are you free tonight?"

Grissom is looking at me in the rearview mirror as he weighs Greg's question. His sunglasses completely conceal his eyes and I have no idea what he is thinking. "Actually, yes," he finally replies. I notice that his hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have turned white.

"What about you, Sara?" asks the Judas in the passenger seat. "Are you free for dinner?"

I take a deep breath. "No, Greg. Sorry. I have my class tonight." _As you darn well know_.

Grissom perks up. "Your Renaissance Art class?"

"Yes. The evening section meets on Tuesdays."

Greg chimes in with, "Yeah, but that doesn't meet until later. What about before?"

"I have plans."

"What plans?"

I give him another death look. A muted one, in case Grissom happens to see it. "Mike Kendall and I are having an early dinner."

There. I said it. I exhale and watch Grissom process this new tidbit of information. I didn't think his knuckles could get any whiter but apparently they can. I want to interject that Mike and I are just friends, but that would only make the situation more awkward.

"That's cozy." Greg turns around in his seat and faces me. "So, what is it with you and professors, anyway?"

"Excuse me?" What is he doing? He is so dead. BFB straight through the heart dead. No witnesses. No evidence. Brass will be my alibi.

"Just wondering." How can someone so awful sound so innocent? Argh!

And then, to my absolute and utter astonishment, Grissom speaks. "I imagine it's hard for Sara to find an intellectual equal elsewhere."

Wow.

Just, wow.

My eyes fly to the rearview mirror where Grissom meets my gaze and gives me a small smile. I smile back, speechless. I've actually got tingles. Happy tingles. I know what my PEAP counselor said about looking for validation in inappropriate places, but I have to say, right now it's feeling pretty damn good.

The remainder of the ride is quiet. Greg has effectively been silenced, although he's looking mighty pleased with himself. Soon we arrive at the Lab, unpack our gear and head inside. Grissom stops at the front desk to pick up his messages while Greg and I continue walking to the locker room.

Once Grissom is out of earshot I whack Greg on arm. "What were you doing back there? Are you trying to make my life Hell?"

"Sara, you know I love you, right?"

I stop dead and turn to face him. "Oh, don't even go there…"

Greg laughs. "Hey, if I can't have you, the least I can do is help you get the guy you want."

I drop my voice to an angry whisper. "By suggesting that I'm 'dating' Mike? Are you kidding me? You saw what happened when Grissom found out about Hank. What do you think is going to happen now? I'm going to be doing solo decomps in the desert for the next six months!"

"Hey. Trust me on this. Men speak in code. Clearly you do not understand the code or you'd have landed you-know-who by now."

"Trust you?" I'm practically spluttering. "Greg…."

He cuts me off with the wave of his hand. "Seems to me, somebody got a very nice compliment tonight. That doesn't sound like anger or retribution."

I have to concede this point. Does this mean I need to start taking dating advice from _Greg_?

We resume walking to the locker room. After changing into our street clothes we clock out and head for the exit. We pass Grissom in the hall and give him a wave.

"Sara," he calls after us.

I stop and turn. "Yes?"

"Come by my office tonight before shift starts."

I cock my head to the side and regard him curiously. He doesn't seem mad. If anything, he seems excited.

"I have something for you," he explains further.

Every now and then I look at Grissom and I swear that he reminds me of a five year old. He gets this really eager expression, like when he makes a break in case, and I have a flash of what he must have looked like as a little kid. It's totally adorable. He's got that expression right now, like he's just discovered a new species of bug or something.

"Really?" I smile, intrigued.

"Really." He nods and stares at me intently. "Have a good time tonight at your class."

I wonder if he would have said something different, or something more, if Greg hadn't been standing beside me. "I will, thanks."

As I drive home from work I keep replaying the scene in the car over and over. I can't believe what Grissom said, and the look he gave me when he said it. There was no reason unless… Unless… I haven't imagined what's between us after all.

Okay, maybe I do like Greg after all. Just a little.

TBC…

Note: Next chapter will be several days. I'm taking a Harry Potter break this weekend!


	4. Chapter 4

**A Renaissance Affair**

**By Chicklit**

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

Disclaimers: The usual. Don't own these characters. Wish I did.

Notes: Angst. What angst? I'm having too much fun to write angst.

Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, and to Laredo Grissom for the shout out on YTDAW. I am honored!

**Chapter 4**

It's late Tuesday afternoon. I haven't had much sleep, barely managing to carve out a quick nap on my couch. I'm running late and I rush to meet Mike for dinner at Backdoor Café, a quaint eatery on campus.

I think that there must be a law out there somewhere stating that in order to become an accredited college or university, an institution must first open a quasi restaurant/bookstore that offers obscure literature, exceptional food and a walled patio with lots of plants and flowers. The UNLV version of this hallowed place is Backdoor Café. You can order a latte and browse aimlessly, wandering between cherry-stained shelves to discover new authors, old authors and an array of artfully arranged gift items. Their baked goods are out of this world.

I meander quickly through the store, purposefully ignoring the jewelry section, and head outside to the rear patio. Mike is already there, sitting at a small table underneath a large overhanging tree. He's got a glass of iced tea and it looks like he set up camp a while ago.

"Sara!" He smiles and waves to me from across the way. When I reach the table he stands up, gives me a strong hug and pulls out a chair. "Here, have a seat."

"Thanks." I can't believe I've known this guy for a week and he's hugging me. Even more bizarre, it feels totally normal to let him do it. It's like hanging out with an older, metrosexual version of Nick.

After we place our food orders he's all eager to hear about my week. Like most 'civilians' he finds the idea of forensics fascinating so I fill him in on the cases I closed and avoid the high profile ones currently under investigation. He respects that I can't talk about most of it and eventually we migrate to other topics.

"Now that we've covered my work week, what have you been up to?" I ask between bites of spinach salad.

Mike shrugs. "Not much."

"Come on. You must've done something. How was your weekend?"

He's chewing his garden burger and can't respond. I take a long look and realize that he seems a bit off.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Not really." Mike drops what's left of his burger on his plate and starts in on his sweet-potato home fries. He's stabbing them violently in ranch dressing, then swallowing them whole. "I miss Caroline."

Okay. My new non-work buddy has invited me to dinner to lament his long-distance girlfriend. This is not good. My plan to get a life outside work is evaporating rapidly.

"Hey!" He points a fry in my direction and waves it in a threatening fashion. "Don't give me that look. I promise I'm not psycho."

"You'd be amazed how often I hear that in my line of work."

Mike just stares at me, then throws his head back and laughs out loud. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Obviously."

"No, really. Thanks. You don't know me well enough for me to be going on about my girlfriend… It was an inappropriate comment and I apologize."

Is he for real? "Mike… last time we met I insulted the wardrobe and tobacco preferences of your entire profession. I think we're even." Clearly, the guy needs to talk, and for some reason I'm actually in the mood to listen. "So, I take it you're not used to being apart?"

"Not lately."

"How long have you been together?"

"Dating?" He scrunches his eyes in thought. "Nine months? We've been friends for years, though."

That's an interesting tidbit that I file away for future reference. I'll have to ask him sometime about the transition from one to the other.

"We each travel for work a fair amount," he continues. "But that's different than actually living in another city."

We've hit the part of the conversation where we're supposed to share war stories, but the reality is that I've never dated anyone long distance so I have no stories to tell. What's wrong with me? Everyone else seems to be able to have long-term, long-distance affairs. Why can't I?

Then again, I think of Grissom and our pseudo relationship. We were long distance for several years in our own dysfunctional way. Phone calls, e:mails, the occasional forensics article in the mail. I planned my existence around the date of his next seminar. The mere suggestion of him made it impossible for me to date anyone seriously in San Francisco, let alone the rest of the country.

"It's hard," I agree, thinking of the nights I would sit at home reading Grissom's entomology articles, imagining his voice in my mind, "but at least the end is in sight. You know when the semester is over."

"True." He nods, considering.

"She can come visit you, you can go visit her."

"Also true."

Feeling cheeky, I decide to have a little fun. "If you miss her so much, why don't you ask her to marry you?"

There's that smile again. He's got a shit-eating grin that puts Dennis Quaid to shame. "I knew I liked you."

Now I'm confused.

"I just love scientists," he explains. "You're so practical. You don't get trapped in life's psychological BS. You evaluate the situation and drive straight to a solution." He takes a sip of his drink and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "I was having the exact same conversation with one of my colleagues earlier. I explained how I was missing Caroline and that the emotion was really foreign. And so my friend wants me to _explore_ my _feelings_. Blah blah blah. I had to invent a student appointment just to escape."

"You're not answering my question." I grin. Ribbing someone else about their love life is so much fun I'm beginning to see why Greg likes to interfere in mine so much.

He raises an eyebrow. "If you must know, I spent my weekend looking at engagement rings."

"Congratulations!" I raise my glass and salute him. It's soda, but who cares.

"Thanks. I didn't see what I wanted, but I met a designer who'll do the ring from scratch so now I just need to wait for her to finish and then I can pop the question."

"She's a lucky woman." And I do mean that sincerely.

From there we move on to a variety of topics, and finally get to the point of the dinner – a quick summary of the semester-to-date. We're already three weeks in so I have some catching up to do. I recall quite a bit from the college, though, so I feel armed by the time we get to class. I take a seat in the back, prop up my feet and watch the Professor go to work.

Mike is even more engaging in class than he was at the alumni lecture. This is clearly a man who loves his job, and his passion is infectious. It's pretty easy to fall asleep while sitting in a dark room watching slides roll by, but the students are engaged and continue to pepper him with surprisingly cogent questions.

I stare at the paintings and I realize how much I miss college. I miss the joy of discovery and the fearless quest for information. Professors made me feel like no question was too stupid to be asked, no hypothesis too ridiculous to be suggested, because you never knew where the next big idea was going to come from. By the time I got to grad school education had become political and mired in bureaucracy. Professors were too busy publishing to care about educating. And my fellow students weren't my friends. They were the competition.

The only exception was Grissom. Sitting at one of his graduate seminars was like being in college again. He loved his material and it became impossible not to love him in return because of it. Sitting there, watching him wax poetic on the subject of larvae, I would have followed him anywhere.

Come to think of it…. I did.

**--------**

Class wraps up at 10:00pm which gives me plenty of time to see Grissom before shift starts at midnight. As I drive to the Lab I realize that I haven't thought about an active case in over three hours. Nor have I thought about any inactive, unsolved cases, which is even better. There really is something to be said for having a life outside of work.

Although, my life inside of work seems to be looking quite promising lately.

The mystery behind Grissom's summons is killing me. I furiously park my car and breeze in the front door, walking purposefully toward the back the building. Nick and Warrick are in the hall, deep in conversation.

"Hey, girl," Warrick turns and gives me an easy grin. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Slumming."

Nick guffaws and gives me a high five.

"Later," I crack as I saunter away toward Grissom's office. I hear them laughing behind me and I realize how much I miss interacting with them on a daily basis. We had such a great team. Such a _great_ team.

Ecklie is a mewling little toady and I really hope he gets what's coming to him someday. The sooner the better.

Visions of Ecklie in a wide variety of embarrassing situations distract me momentarily and the next thing I know I'm at Grissom's door. He's got the top off his tarantula's cage and he's leaning so far over his face is practically inside the tank. His lips are moving but I can't hear a thing.

"Hey," I greet softly.

His head pops up and he gives me a small smile. "Hello, Sara."

"You have something for me?"

"Yes, I do." He quickly puts the lid back on the spider's cage. "Here. Have a seat." He doesn't indicate the chair that I usually occupy. Rather, he directs me to the small sofa in the far corner.

I plop down and watch Grissom with interest. He's now walking toward me holding a small red milk crate, the kind that you use to store hanging file folders. He sits down on the couch and we're so close that our thighs are touching. The muscle of his leg is solid against mine and I savor its warmth. I should move away but I don't.

"These are for you," he sets the box on the ground between us and turns to me with a bashful expression. "I thought you might find them interesting."

Intrigued, I lean over and look inside. The box is filled with art books. Large, small, thick, thin. The only thing they have in common is that they all pertain to the Italian Renaissance. I'm at a loss for words so I pick up the volume closest to me and take a look. It's simply titled _Italian Renaissance Art_. I flip it open and find "Gil Grissom" printed in neat block letters on the inside front cover. My fingers trace the lettering reverently and I lift my eyes to his.

He's watching me expectantly, his expression both curious and hopeful. "This one is a pretty basic history," he explains. "It'll provide a solid background for your class. Now this…" He leans over and hands me another book. "This is fascinating."

It's an old, heavy cloth-bound tome that's seen better days. The text is all in Italian and the publication date is 1972. I flip through the pages and find plate after plate of photographs from the Sistine Chapel ceiling. The frescoes are muted and dingy with age but the level of skill is as breathtaking as I remember from college.

"Now, try this." He hands me a second, newer book.

It's the Sistine Chapel again, only this time the frescoes are alive with color. They are so clean, so clear, so pastel, that they are almost unrecognizable from the images in the first book.

Our eyes meet again, and we smile at our discovery.

I can't restrain my astonishment. "Obviously, I knew about the restoration. I remember the spread in _Life_ magazine. But it happened right around the time I started college so none of our class slides were updated. It was too new. To think that this was there the entire time, lurking beneath the surface… It's just amazing."

His hand brushes against mine as he turns the page and murmurs, "It makes you wonder what else is out there waiting to be discovered."

I shiver at his touch, I can't help it.

There's something so intimate about sitting here with Grissom in his dimly lit office pouring through the books of his youth. I forget sometimes that teaching is his preferred mode of communication, the one that puts him completely at ease. Determined to relish the moment, I lean back and let the gentle cadence of his words flow through me. Soon he is leaning back, too, and we are fused from shoulder to knee.

Grissom is a fan of the Venetians, and he eagerly pages through plates of Titian and Tintoretto. I listen to his enthusiastic words but mostly I watch the way his strong hands caress the contours of each portrait. He talks of chiaroscuro and all I can think about is what it would feel like to have those capable fingers trace _me_. I want to be that woman in the portrait, with her lustrous hair and worldly eyes. I want to be the one that captivates him so completely.

I honestly don't know how long we sit there. At some point my head gravitates to his shoulder and he puts his arm around me like it's the most natural thing in the world. We talk of Renaissance art theory and favorite paintings. Favorite museums.

"The Uffizi," Grissom pronounces definitively.

I sigh. "Can't say, I've never been to Florence." I feel him looking at me, but I'm not about to take my head off his warm shoulder to meet his questioning gaze. I don't think I've ever been this comfortable. "Actually, I've never been to Europe."

Silence stretches between us and now his thumb is tracing absent patterns on my arm. "You should go," he softly replies. "You'd like it there." Then he chuckles and gives me a squeeze. "Italy has lots of vegetarian food. Pasta."

I laugh and finally raise my eyes to his fathomless gaze. I was going to make a witty comeback, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was. His eyes are the most incredible shade of cornflower blue.

Suddenly, there's a loud crash from the hallway outside. I hear Bobbie swearing and Archie apologizing profusely.

Grissom and I separate like guilty schoolchildren. We've done nothing wrong and yet it distinctly feels as though we have. I don't think I'm alone in the knowledge that somehow we've just crossed a line.

Taking a deep breath, Grissom leans over and puts all of the books back in the crate. Once everything is in place he slides it over to me. "Anyway. I… Um… I… hope you enjoy them."

I'm charmed by the fact that he can't seem to look me in the eye. "I'm sure I will." My hand closes over his. "Thank you."

Another deep breath. "You're welcome." Then he stands up and walks to his desk where a pile of manila folders awaits his attention.

A quick inspection of my watch reveals that shift is scheduled to start in just a few minutes, which means Grissom and I have been pouring over art books for over an hour. I scoop up the crate and clutch it to my chest. "I'm going to go put these in my car. Back in a sec."

"Okay."

I turn and start to walk away. After a few steps I pause and look back at Grissom. I can't say why, I just follow the compulsion. It's like a biological imperative.

He's still seated at his desk, but he's not doing paperwork. He's staring at me with an expression that I've never seen before. It's possessive, almost feral. His eyes, full of dark knowledge, bore into mine.

The hairs on the back of my neck ripple to attention.

"Sara. I…," He blinks and looks down, then turns the full force of his gaze on me. "I'm trying."

I smile and clutch his gift even more tightly against my chest. "I know."

TBD…


	5. Chapter 5

A Renaissance Affair

By Chicklit

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

Disclaimers: The usual. Still don't own these characters. Wish I did.

Notes: Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I'm glad you are enjoying my tale!

**Chapter 5**

Unsteady legs carry me to my car. I grip the crate like a lifeline, as if its solid presence can keep me sane in the wake of Grissom's sensory onslaught. Sometimes I hate the effect he has on me. I hate the power that it implies. And yet, there is nothing in the world that makes me feel more alive.

There's a distinct sense of déjà vu when I enter the break room several minutes later. Greg is standing before the coffee maker, mesmerized by its brewing capabilities. The aroma of high-grade caffeine fills the air.

"Do something to annoy Grissom again?" I ask sweetly.

He laughs. "Not yet. But I've learned that it's best to be prepared." He turns and gives me a suspicious, knowing look. "So, what have you been up to?"

"Oh, this and that."

"Sara." Greg shakes his head back and forth, obviously dissatisfied with my response. "I am a trained investigator, as I hope by now you are well aware. I clearly recall an invitation from Grissom this morning. Don't you have something to report?"

Suddenly, I too am mesmerized by the brewing capabilities of our coffee machine.

I'm too raw from the session in Grissom's office to have this discussion with Greg. I don't want to be at work. I want to be at home, sitting in the dark, savoring my memory of the untamed heat in Grissom's gaze. I want to bask in that look and the accompanying knowledge that I haven't imagined his feelings for me. If I was stranded on a deserted island with no food I could feast on the words 'I'm trying' for _days_.

"I saw you two in his office."

Oh…. Crap.

What must we have looked like? I know what we felt like, and it certainly wasn't professional. I can still feel his solid warmth pressed against my side. If this gets out Grissom will never come near me again. Crap!

Greg answers my unspoken question. "Don't worry. No one else did."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. You were way in the far corner, I had to crane my neck to see you."

"You were spying on us?"

"Of course." He's completely unapologetic. "If I'm going to play Cupid, I have to know the score. So… Did you?"

"Did I what?"

He gives me an exasperated look. "Score."

I'm trying really hard not to whack him on the arm again. He's just begging for it. But I know that deep down his heart is in the right place so I offer up a secret smile instead. "In a manner of speaking."

"Oh, this I have to hear." He grabs me by the arm and propels me away from the door. "Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill. You saw all there was to see."

"Perhaps. But I missed the soundtrack."

"He brought me some old art books. We paged through them. End of story. Can we please move on?"

"Really? I'm not so sure. I might need a second opinion from Nick."

"You wouldn't!"

"I would."

Twerp. I really should not be having this conversation with him, but at the same time I can't help myself. I need the validation. "Okay, since you claim to be an interpreter of this mysterious male code that I supposedly know nothing about, riddle me this. Hypothetically speaking, if a man tells a woman that he's 'trying,' what does that mean exactly?"

"Hypothetically speaking?" Greg crosses his arms and ponders me like a piece of puzzling evidence. "Trying or _trying_?"

"_Trying_."

He grins an evil grin. "You go, girl."

In a rare karmic event, Sofia waltzes in at the exact moment Greg opens his mouth to ask more questions. Oblivious to the topic of our conversation, she offers a friendly "hello" and makes a beeline for fresh java. For once I'm actually glad to see her and the buffer that she represents.

Greg is jonesing for more information. His eyes shoot daggers at me from behind Sofia's back, but I merely smile serenely and take a seat at the table. I scan the newspaper and resolutely refuse to acknowledge his existence.

We're all sitting down by the time Grissom wanders in with our assignments. He seems completely distracted and for a moment I'm unable to breathe. Years of uncertainty and rejection well up, making me wonder if he regrets his earlier revelation. I can't take another rendition of 'one step forward, two steps back.' I simply can't.

Then he looks at me. Straight at me. And he smiles the most beautiful smile. "Sara, you're with me."

-------

Grissom and I fall easily into our professional rhythm and the drive to the scene is comfortably silent. He loads a CD into the stereo while I sit back and watch the kaleidoscope of neon signs unfolding outside. Madame Butterfly isn't really the music that I would choose for Vegas at night, but somehow with Grissom it seems to work. As the lilting sounds of an aria fill the car I feel like we've been transported to another world.

We meet Brass in a filthy alley just off the Strip. He's flipping through his note pad and wearing a dark scowl. "Hey," he grunts, then returns to his notes.

"Evening," I reply back. "What have we got?"

"See for yourself."

We follow him to the scene and it takes us about two seconds to recognize a gang fight gone bad. There are multiple bodies, multiple semi-automatic weapons and enough shell casings to keep the ballistics department employed for a month. In the distance I can see a cluster of eyewitnesses sequestered behind yellow crime scene tape. Any hope I may have harbored for a leisurely evening spent continuing my earlier conversation with Grissom is immediately dashed.

I grab my camera and state the obvious. "This is going to take some time."

Grissom sighs heavily, pulls out his cell phone and calls in the rest of the team.

We end up working a double. Close to a triple, actually. There aren't enough weapons on site to account for all of the bullets, so the team spends hours upon hours combing nearby alleys for discards. I take perverse pleasure in the fact that Grissom puts me on primary and makes Sofia and Greg sweep all of the dumpsters. I once heard that Las Vegas produces more garbage per capita than any city in the world. I don't know if that's true, but tonight it sure feels like it. By the time Greg gets back to the principal scene he smells like a rotting bordello.

He gives me a sour look. "Did you put Grissom up to this?"

"Up to what?"

He doesn't even bother to reply. He just wanders off, grumbling about what a lousy ingrate I am.

Our frustration with the scene is compounded by the fact that the eyewitnesses are a complete nightmare and seem to be making up contradictory stories on the spot. Brass is so annoyed he's practically twitching and I don't envy him the job of trying to sort out the truth from the lies. At one point he walks by me and rolls his eyes dramatically. I give him a sympathetic shrug. The evidence will have to speak for itself on this one -- assuming we are able to find it in all of the trash.

I'm functioning on pure adrenaline by the time we get back to the Lab. I haven't slept in days, I'm punchy and my blood sugar is so low I think my vision is fraying at the edges. When I reach down to handle a key piece of evidence and realize at the last second that I don't have gloves on, I know it's time to go home.

Yes, contrary to what the rest of the team thinks, I do occasionally stop.

As I walk out of the locker room I run into Grissom and we automatically adjust our strides to match. "Heading home?" he asks as we walk down the main hallway. He's using his supervisor voice and from the tone I can tell he thinks I should have left hours ago.

Last year I'd have gone on the offensive and pointed out that since he's still here I have every right to be. Today, however, I tell him the truth. He's earned it. "Yeah, I'm beat."

He does a double take, shocked that I've actually admitted to being tired.

"Since I had class I didn't get much sleep before shift, so I've basically been up for two days straight."

"Are you okay to drive? Do you need a ride home?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Grissom, I'm _fine_. Really."

He gives me the once-over and seems to accept that I'm capable of getting home under my own power. At the same time, he insists on walking me to my car. The implications of this behavior are causing my stomach to do somersaults. I can't help but notice that he's really cute when he gets protective.

There's a moment of awkwardness when we reach our destination and he spots the crate of books in my back seat. He stares at them, perplexed, as if he's completely forgotten about the interlude in his office. Or thought he imagined it.

"Thank you again for the books." I give him a small smile and pray that it doesn't look too sappy or eager. "It's nice to know you're still interested."

Oh no. I did not just say that! No. No. NO. That's got to be the worst double entendre in the history of double entendres. What must he think?

There's an answering gleam in his eye and I just want to die.

"Um, well, when I say 'still interested' you know, I mean, in the Renaissance. Interested in art. You know, painting. Architecture. Pasta!" Oh God, I'm overtalking again. I've got verbal diarrhea and there's not enough Immodium on the planet to save me.

He's just standing there, dumbstruck. I can't even look at him. I turn, open my door and hop inside with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances. Thankfully my car starts quickly and I suppress the desire to rev my engine and tear out of the parking lot at warp speed. Only after I shift into reverse do I realize that Grissom hasn't left. He's still standing there. Now, however, he's patiently tapping on my window.

_Go away. Please, go away_. I'm so tired. I want to go home and sleep and pretend I've just hallucinated the last five minutes of my life. Today was going so incredibly well. If I open my mouth again I'm going to have to take a leave of absence to repair the damage.

He's not going away. The knocking is becoming more persistent.

I want to weep with frustration. Instead, I take a deep breath, roll down the window and look up. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can start pretending it never happened.

I bite the inside of my lip. I will _not_ overtalk.

He wants to laugh at me but he's too much of a gentleman to do it to my face. Beneath his obvious amusement there is a symphony of emotions swirling in his eyes. Sympathy, uncertainty, and a hint of something else. Something fiercely possessive.

"I am still interested," is his cryptic reply.

I don't trust myself to respond appropriately so I just bite my lip harder.

"Perhaps after you've had a chance to read through the books, you'd like get to together over breakfast to discuss them in more detail?"

Whoa. That was smooth. I know I'm sleep deprived, but that sounded suspiciously like a date. Or, a dry run for a date, since it's just breakfast. Then again, he has meals with Sofia and those aren't dates. Are they? No. He doesn't bring art books to Sofia. And he certainly doesn't snuggle on his couch with Sofia. Does he? I'll kill him if he does. Wait. Did I just say all of that out loud? No. I have got to get some _sleep_.

"Sara?" He's standing there looking like he regrets having opened his mouth.

I will not overtalk. I formulate a response that is mature, professional and succinct. "Thank you. I would like that very much."

"Good." He smiles and steps away from my car. "Sleep well."

Yeah, like that's going to happen _now_. I still don't trust myself to speak coherently so I give him a wave and pull out of my parking spot. As I drive away I see him still standing there, staring after me with a satisfied grin.

Back in my apartment I drop into bed like a ton of bricks. My last coherent thought is that I am going to read Grissom's books cover to cover and memorize every single word. I have a Harvard degree and I am going to use it. Our breakfast will last for _hours_.


	6. Chapter 6

A Renaissance Affair

By Chicklit

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

Disclaimers: The usual. Still don't own these characters. Wish I did.

Notes: Thank you, as always, for the lovely reviews.

**Chapter 6**

Half asleep with a phone buzzing in my ear is a very disorienting way to start the day. I don't remember the phone ringing, and I certainly have no recollection of rolling over to answer it. "Y'ello" mumbles from my mouth as I acclimate to my newfound consciousness.

"Sara?"

It's Grissom. My name is a question that does not usually require an answer, so I survey my surroundings and wait for him to continue. I'm in bed and I seem to have face-planted on my comforter without even changing into pajamas. While this is not unusual per se, I feel as though there's some significance to it today. What was I… ?

Oh.

Oh my.

Memories of my encounter with Grissom in the parking lot start to coalesce. At first my recollection is hazy, but soon it returns in Technicolor. I'm stuck in a weird limbo between total embarrassment and unadulterated joy. I really hope he's not calling to back out of the breakfast invitation, although I wouldn't blame him if he did. It was a surreal conversation.

A quick glance at the clock tells me I've slept for almost ten hours straight. That could be a record.

"I need you."

A revealing statement on so many levels, but I'm too groggy to properly process the innuendo. Another day, perhaps. "What's up?" I reply instead.

"Warrick and Nick worked a double to cover for us last night. Do you think you can come in early to help me cover their shift this afternoon?" His voice sounds distracted, yet apologetic.

"Sure. No problem."

"Good."

He doesn't elaborate further, but he doesn't hang up either.

"Is there anything else?" I finally ask.

A pause. Then, "When would you like to have breakfast?"

Well, hot damn. "I dunno. You've provided me with a lot of material to review. It might take several days for me to absorb all that information and dazzle you with my retention skills." No point in sounding too eager.

"Next week, perhaps?" He's smiling. I can hear it in his voice.

"Perhaps."

"I've got a conference in San Diego that runs through Tuesday. How about Thursday morning after shift? Will that give you time to adequately prepare?"

"Yes, I think it will."

"I shall look forward to our discussion then." Grissom's voice is like warm whiskey in December, stirring my blood and warming my soul. "See you this afternoon."

"Okay, bye."

He hangs up and I curl into a happy puddle, still cradling the phone in my ear.

--------

My interaction with Grissom over the next week is purely professional. By tacit agreement we don't discuss our impending meal, yet the underlying knowledge of its existence seems to permeate every conversation that we have. There's an undercurrent of relaxed anticipation, as if the decision to issue the invitation has relieved him of an incredible burden. He's easy to be around, attentive but not suffocating. He makes horrible puns that have me grinning like an idiot. It's almost like we've regressed back to the relationship we had when I first moved to Vegas.

I suppose there is one subtle difference between now and then, though. He's the one who's doing the chasing. Or at least he _thinks_ he is. I'm slowly learning that Grissom likes the illusion of control just as much as I do.

When I'm not at work I'm at home studying like a fiend. By the time Wednesday rolls around I've finished the books and feel confident in my ability to regurgitate them at will. Well, all of them except the one in Italian. There's not enough time for Berlitz.

Despite all my studying, however, I can't help but feel that there are still some pieces missing. In a last-ditch effort to bolster my education I shamelessly invite Mike over for dinner before shift. I offer to ply him with penne a la vodka in exchange for letting me pick his considerable brain. He doesn't get the humor behind the menu choice, but I do.

The poor guy barely has a wine glass in his hand before I start bombarding him with questions. There are a number of discrepancies between the information in Grissom's books and the topics covered in Mike's class. I want to know why.

"Revisionist history," he counters with a mild shrug.

"But why?"

"What do you mean _why_?"

"What's the basis? The painting hasn't changed in almost five hundred years. It's not like there's new evidence."

He exhales dramatically. "Art isn't evidence. Aside from provenance, it's completely subjective."

"But…"

"But, what?" He completely cuts me off. "Tell me again why you need an urgent art tutorial on a random Wednesday night?"

"I happened across some old texts and I had a few questions."

He looks at me suspiciously. "What texts?"

I gesture to the pile on the coffee table.

He walks over and peruses the stack. "Hmmm." He picks one up and starts leafing through it. "You've got some really interesting works here." Completely ignoring me for the moment, he sits down on my couch and starts reading. I can't help but notice it's the old Sistine Chapel book. The one in Italian.

I sit down next to him. "You read Italian?"

"And French and German."

"Impressive." I'd forgotten that most art historians have to read multiple languages. I lean forward and pick up a very old copy of Vasari's _Lives of the Artists._ I re-read the introduction while Mike picks up a new book and starts to examine it.

"Who's Gil Grissom?"

My head pops up. "My boss. Why?"

"His name's in the book."

Oooops.

Mike gestures to the pile on my table. "Did he give all of these to you?"

"Yes, he thought I might find them interesting since I'm auditing your class."

"That was nice of him."

Mike doesn't seem to think it's weird that my boss gives me books and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"So, does Gil have a background in art?"

"Grissom," I correct automatically. Off Mike's confused look I add, "I call him by his last name."

"Oh, okay. So, does _Grissom_ have a background in art?"

That is the twenty thousand dollar question. "I don't know. He obviously studied it when he was younger, but I don't really know the circumstances."

"Well, he's got quite the collection. Some of these are first editions." He pats a small treatise on Da Vinci's _The Last Supper_. "This one would catch a pretty penny at auction."

Mike's staring at me with an appraising eye and I'm not sure how to interpret it. Defaulting to my usual pattern of avoidance, I hop up and head for the kitchen. "More wine?" I'm not drinking much because of work, but that doesn't mean Mike can't enjoy himself.

"Sure, thanks."

He's still contemplating my existence when I return with the bottle of Shiraz.

"So, what's the story with Grissom?"

"Story?" I try to look as innocent as possible. Not sure if it's working.

"A man gives you valuable art books and suddenly you just have to have me over for dinner to make sure you understand them correctly?" His eyes bulge exponentially. "Sara Sidle! Do you have a crush on your _boss_?"

I am _so_ not answering this question.

"Well I'll be damned." He collapses against the back of the couch and stares at me like we've just met.

"It's not like that." I feel the need to defend myself. And Grissom. "It's not like that at all."

His voice is curious, not judgmental. "So tell me what it's like, then."

And I do. I tell him about how I met Grissom at a graduate seminar, how we stayed in touch, how I came to Vegas to help him and never quite left. The words flow out in a torrent and I find myself unable to stop. Grissom is a professor, a mentor, a friend. Maybe he's more. His breakfast invitation is unprecedented and it's got me completely confused. Hopeful, but confused.

"So you need my help with a crash course on Renaissance art so you can impress your boss?"

"Exactly. Forget about mid-terms. Help me cram for the final."

"Let me ask you something." He swirls his wine and takes a deep gulp. "Say you're having breakfast tomorrow and you start discussing Raphael's _Madonna della Sedia_. Do you honestly think that your boss is going to get up and leave the table if you say it was painted in 1510 instead of 1514?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are you killing yourself trying to memorize all this stuff?"

I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Why? How can I possibly make Mike understand? Because it's _Grissom_, that's why. Because he represents everything that I have ever wanted in my life. So what if I need his validation and approval. So what if I've got authority issues and a masochistic tendency to pursue men who are emotionally unavailable. I am what I am. And there will never be another man who will make me feel like Grissom can. I know this at a molecular level.

Even more important, there will never be another woman who can love him like I can. Who will read his entomology articles and actually understand them. Who will encourage him to ride rollercoasters and race hissing cockroaches. Who won't ever laugh at him, just with him. Who won't judge him. I know this, too.

I offer the truth. "Because it's the only way I know to show him that I care."

Mike ages a decade in a span of seconds, his eyes appearing wise beyond his years. "You think that by learning everything there is to learn about a subject he finds interesting, he'll find you interesting as well?"

I look down, unable to meet his sympathetic gaze. "Something like that, yeah."

"Sara." His hand clasps mine firmly. "The Transitive property works in geometry, not relationships."

I laugh. I simply have to. If I don't, I'll start to cry, and I've already cried too many tears over Gil Grissom.

Mike joins me, and suddenly we're completely convulsed. I don't know if it's the wine, or the situation or the fact that I'm finally talking about Grissom with another human being, but I feel completely liberated. Once I'm capable of conversation I look over at my new friend and smile. "If you ever get tired of the whole art thing, you've got a serious future in counseling."

"Didn't I tell you? Caroline's a psychiatrist."

This sends us into another fit of hysterics, and it's ten minutes before we recover enough to speak properly. I think I might have actually pulled a muscle from laughing too hard.

Mike pats my hand in an absent, paternal gesture. "You already know everything you need to know. Go have breakfast. See what happens."

See what happens? Been there, done that, still have the scars to prove it.

"Can I offer you a bit of advice?"

"Don't stop now," I smirk, "you're on a roll."

"Unless you work in restoration, art isn't science. You can't explain it rationally. You can only experience it."

"I disagree." Somewhere in the back of my mind is the vague thought that I have no business arguing with an expert, but that's never stopped me before. "Wasn't the entire point of the Renaissance that art can be rational? These are the people who merged science with art. Who developed linear perspective. They argued that natural laws and scientific order are evidence of the existence of a higher being."

"You're missing my point completely." He stands up and starts pacing. "Ignore history. Ignore what you've read. Focus on what you _feel_."

I'm starting to remember why I only took one art history class in college.

"Sara." He's pronouncing my name like I'm in elementary school. "Work with me. Let's talk about your favorite piece of art. Your Bernini statue."

I picture it in my mind, a contradiction of grace and violence.

"You must also be familiar with Bernini's statue of David."

"Of course." I picture it, too. The restlessness, the energy, the moment of confrontation just before David slings that fatal stone.

"Which do you like better, Bernini's or Michelangelo's?"

"Bernini's."

"Just like that? You didn't even think about it."

"I don't need to."

He's smiling at me, taunting in a friendly way. "Some historians would argue that Michelangelo's statue is a better work. It certainly is more well known."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I really don't care what the historians say." I roll my eyes. "Okay, I see your point." And I do. I can appreciate the Michelangelo David on an intellectual level. After all, it's a superior piece of work. Yet the Bernini David speaks to me on a visceral level that has nothing to do with technical execution. It's rather like comparing Greg to Grissom.

Yikes. That's a scary thought.

"Sara, _this_ is the conversation that you should be having with your Mr. Grissom. Not dates or definitions. Tell him what you like and _why_."

"But he said he wanted to talk about the books."

"Please!" Mike throws up his hands in exasperation. "He's a guy. He wants to spend time with _you_. To get to know _you_. The books are merely a gateway to conversation!"

I'm not trying to be deliberately obtuse, but I can't seem to help myself. I'm beginning to think that there really is something to Greg's theory on men speaking in code. "Grissom and I have worked together for almost five years. He's had plenty of time to get to know me. Why now? What's changed?"

"That's a question for him, not me."

And I think it's time I asked it.

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

**A Renaissance Affair**

By Chicklit

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

Disclaimers: I don't own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Notes: First off, thank you very much for your reviews. I continue to be amazed by how friendly and welcoming the CSI fanfic community is. Second, I'd hoped to finish this story in one shot but the final chapter is now almost 6,000 words. So, thought I'd post a completed snippet to tide over those of you (you know who you are!) who have asked me to get off my arse and update. The finale will be along in a day or two. Apologies in advance for being a horrible tease (insert maniacal laugh here).

**Chapter 7**

Mike lingers over pasta and wine and we decide to forego the last-minute art lesson in favor of a leisurely meal. He regales me with tales of his trips to Italy and we laugh about the never-ending battle between stupid tourists and maniacal Vespa owners. Our conversation is friendly, easy and exactly what I need to decompress before shift starts. By the time I leave for work I am feeling confident and in control. It's bizarre. There has been a tectonic shift in my relationship with Grissom this year and the change seems to be accelerating daily. Rather than being freaked out about it, though, I feel strangely calm. It's like the pieces of my life are finally falling into place.

As I drive to work I cannot get that song 'Anticipation' out of my head. It has been ricocheting around for the last twenty minutes and it really needs to stop. I swear it feels like Christmas Eve. I'm excited, jittery and deathly afraid that I won't get what I want most.

The lab seems suspiciously quiet as I walk through the main reception area. I say hello to Judy, wave to Archie and meander down the hall toward Grissom's office. The lights are off so I continue on to the break room. The gang's all there and Grissom is already distributing cases.

"Nice of you to join us this evening," he murmurs as I walk in the door. There's a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and I wonder if he's thinking what I'm thinking. _Eight hours until breakfast._

"It's a public service that I perform from time to time."

His grin widens and he continues with assignments, partnering himself with Sofia on a high-profile investigation. I'm in such a good mood I don't even care. I tell them to have fun and actually mean it.

Greg peers over my shoulder and looks at the slip in my hand. "Smash and grab? Oh, man, don't you have anything more interesting? I could really use a good dead body."

Grissom gives Greg a withering stare. "A dead body is never good, Greg."

My partner opens his mouth to respond but is quickly distracted by the pain radiating from his foot. I recently discovered that smashing his instep is the fastest way to shut him up.

"Come along, Greg." I tow him away like a good dog.

_Seven hours and fifty minutes._

XXXXXX

"This is just _wrong_." Greg sounds like he's been violated.

I stare down at the putrefying corpse in front of us and I have to agree. "You asked for it." I shouldn't taunt him, but I can't help it. Turns out the smash and grab was right next to an abandoned building. A routine police search of the thief's exit route turned up more than any of us were hoping to find.

Our vic is clearly an overdose. A rusted needle is sticking into what's left of his skin. A rotted rubber tourniquet has collapsed around his elbow.

Decomps in closed spaces are ugly, nasty, putrid affairs with no redeeming educational value whatsoever. Just when I think I've acclimated to the scene, I touch the body and a shockwave of stench roils forth to steal my very breath. It's positively inhuman the way the smell fuses to my hair and skin. I feel like I'm bathing in primordial ooze.

There will be no breakfast. Even if Grissom is willing, I won't agree to it.

We take a step back, far enough away from the corpse to breathe fresh air. I use the term 'fresh air' loosely, seeing as how we're standing in a shelled-out crack house.

"This is just foul." I continue. "We need to start carrying oxygen tanks in the Tahoe. Maybe borrow some suits from the CDC." We'd look like complete idiots but I wouldn't care. At least I'd smell normal. Damn it! I am so pissed off at the world in general right now. I want to drop kick this flipping corpse into the next time zone. If this loser had just said 'no' to drugs I'd still be contemplating my breakfast with Grissom.

"Trust."

"Huh?"

"Well, I was going to say 'word,' 'cause that's the traditional urban term to express that I hear what you're saying, but I have it on good authority that 'trust' is the new 'word.'"

"Let me guess. You've been hanging out with Warrick before shift."

"Hey, it beats sitting around watching you and Grissom make goo goo eyes at each other."

"What? We do _not_." While I'm tempted once again to beat the everlasting crap out of him, deep down I'm afraid he might be right. I can say with authority that I've been on the receiving end of a few lingering stares since Grissom got back from San Diego. I think he missed me while he was away.

"Do too."

"Whatever," I wave my hand dismissively. "Let's transport this thing so we can get the hell out of here and go take a shower."

XXXXXX

My fury knows no bounds by the time we get back to the lab. It's like PMS on steroids. Even Greg, who is usually impervious to female crankiness, is giving me wide berth. And just when I thought my evening couldn't get any worse, the first person we run into is Grissom. I haven't taken my first shower, let alone my second or third.

Whenever I see Grissom there's a frisson of feminine awareness that courses through me. I've never been one to preen, but I find myself standing taller, smiling more brightly when he's around. Now, I just want to disappear entirely. There is absolutely, positively nothing even remotely feminine about this particular encounter.

He looks at me and I can pinpoint the exact moment his olfactory sense kicks in. "Decomp?"

"That pesky smash and grab had an unexpected bonus," Greg confirms sarcastically.

Grissom isn't paying any attention to Greg. He's riveted on me, and he has the grace to look as disappointed as I feel. "I guess breakfast is out, then."

"Yeah," I sigh, mentally revising my morning itinerary. A trip to the grocery store is now in order, followed by the massacre of many, many lemons. It'll be hours before I'm fit for public consumption.

"Wait." Greg's head volleys back and forth between Grissom and me. "You guys were going to have breakfast this morning?" He sends me a piercing, indignant stare.

"I believe 'were' is the operative word," Grissom responds dryly. He seems totally blasé about the fact that Greg knows about our plans. I don't know if he doesn't care, or he thinks he's hiding in plain sight. Now is probably not a good time to inform him that Greg has become my dating guru.

"So, have dinner tonight instead." Greg offers optimistically.

If someone put a mirror in front of me right now, I'm sure my eyes would be as wide as saucers. Dinner with Grissom? Greg is completely unaware that he's just stepped on a hornet's nest of epic proportions. There are connotations to dinner with Grissom. Implications. It wouldn't be a friendly, slightly flirty meal between two colleagues. It would be a date.

"I am actually off tonight." Grissom's head tilts and he considers me with a tentative smile. "Are you free for dinner?"

Forget about the whole 'eyes as wide as saucers' analogy. Now I'm the proverbial deer in headlights. Holy everlasting… He's asking me out for _dinner_? I actually look to Greg for confirmation, to make sure the decomp hasn't addled my senses to such a degree that I'm now hallucinating things.

"Tonight's my night off, too," he adds in a matter-of-fact tone that belies the look of conspiratorial glee in his eyes. "We can swap shifts if you like."

An entire night off with Grissom? This is a rhetorical question, right?

"Okay." I try to make my voice sound really nonchalant, like Grissom and I have dinner all of the time, but it comes out as squeaky instead. I turn back to Grissom and his eyes draw me in like a tractor beam.

"Thank you, Greg, that's very nice of you," he intones, his eyes never leaving mine. This must be what Greg refers to as 'goo goo eyes.' It's a complete mystery how Grissom can look at me like I'm an ice cream cone on the fourth of July when I smell like a corpse.

_Anticipation…_ Darn. There's that song again…

TBC…


	8. Chapter 8

**A Renaissance Affair**

By Chicklit

Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.

Disclaimers: I still don't own these characters, darn it, I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Notes: The end! I haven't used my art history degree this much since I graduated college ;) Thanks for reading and reviewing… I'm glad you enjoyed it!

**_This chapter contains sexual content and I have revised the story rating accordingly. Please respect the rating and do not read further if you find this type of material offensive._ **

**Chapter 8**

Greg is so delighted with his matchmaking skills that he forgives me for keeping him in the dark about the breakfast meeting. Even more surprising, he keeps my impending dinner date completely to himself. When Jacqui comments that he's in an unusually good mood for a guy who reeks of decomp, he just shrugs, sends me a sly grin and tells her that he has abnormally high serotonin levels.

The remainder of the evening passes quietly and I manage to complete my shift without dissolving into a nervous, foul-smelling puddle.

The trip to the grocery store is mercifully quick. The check-out lines are short and I only have to suffer the disturbed stares of a few early morning shoppers before I can escape home with my bag of lemons. After completing my post-decomp cleansing regimen I take a sleeping pill, which I almost never do, because being sleep-deprived on my first date with Grissom is simply not an option.

I wake up sufficiently rested and scour the insides of my closet in search of the perfect outfit. I don't want something conservative, nor do I want something overtly suggestive. There's got to be a happy medium that will enable me to look like myself, just better. I finally settle on a chocolate brown jersey halter top and matching skirt. Greg recently pronounced the ensemble 'ferociously hot' when I wore it to one of his infamous disco parties. Hopefully it will have a similar effect on Grissom.

I slip into my naughty black underwear, not because I think that Grissom will actually get to see it, but because wearing it makes me feel slightly dangerous.

I'm just putting the finishing touches on my make-up when I hear Grissom knock. I take a steadying breath, grab my purse and open the door. If there had been any question as to whether or not this was a real date, his appearance confirms it. His nod to the occasion is a dark grey sport coat paired with a cream button down top and black pleated trousers. His black loafers gleam and I get all gooey inside at the thought of him sitting at home meticulously polishing his shoes on my behalf. The attention to detail is just so deliciously…_Grissom_.

My fingers itch to straighten his glasses and smooth his lapels, but I project an aura of outward calm. "Hello."

"Hello yourself. You look very nice." He leans so close that I can feel his beard tickle my cheek and I gasp involuntarily at his nearness. He sniffs my hair, slowly inhaling its scent. "Mmmmm. Lemony fresh."

I smile against his warm skin. "Did you expect anything less?"

He draws back slightly, just enough so that his eyes can meet mine. Our lips are inches apart and I feel as though I have never been more aware of Grissom as a man in my entire life. It would be so easy to let myself drift forward and taste him. So incredibly easy. From the look in his eyes he's thinking the same thing, but he chooses to stand still. In a sotto voice he replies, "I've learned never to assume anything when I'm around you."

We're thirty seconds into the date and I am already utterly charmed. "So, where are you taking me?"

His eyebrow lifts suggestively. "It's a surprise."

"Really?"

"Really."

Soon we are in his car heading away from town, but I still have no clue as to our destination. I roll down the window and let the cool night air fan across my face. "Any hints?"

He smirks. "No."

We talk idly of restaurants we like and I try to pin him down on his selection for this evening, but to no avail. Finally we pull onto a narrow gravel drive and pass a smattering of evergreens and cacti. The smell of moist dirt and vegetation rises from the earth and I feel as though the city of Las Vegas is a million miles away. After a few minutes we reach an open clearing and stop. Before me stands an elegant ranch-style wooden building that flows into an outdoor patio pockmarked with brick fire pits. Paper lanterns hang haphazardly from green wires and in the distance I can hear the muted tones of an accordion. An old wooden sign proclaims '_Giorgio's_.'

Ever the gentleman, Grissom gets out of the car and walks around to open my door. I place my hand in his and he gently pulls me forward and closes the door behind me.

I look at the sign, then back at him. "Italian?"

"It seemed like an appropriate choice."

"I love it!"

"I'm glad," he returns quietly. Still holding my hand, he ushers me in the door.

I forget sometimes that Grissom has a highly developed sense of humor. After I made such a moron out of myself trying to explain what 'still interested' meant, I should have known he wouldn't be able to resist somewhere Italian that specializes in pasta. I have to admit, I was expecting him to take me somewhere quieter, more expensive, more intimidating.

We sit outside near one of the fire pits, surrounded by red-checked tablecloths and empty Chianti jugs that double as flower vases. It's hokey and unexpected and I really do love it. It makes me wonder about the facets of Grissom's personality that I have yet to discover.

"I can't believe that our waiter is named Guido!" I lean forward and whisper after we give our orders.

"I think all of the waiters here are named Guido. They are distinguishable by their distinctive gold jewelry."

I look around and realize he might actually be right. "How did you find this place?"

"Brass."

"Of course." We share a laugh, amused as always at Jim's peculiar knowledge of Vegas kitsch.

Our waiter returns with our bottle of red wine and there's a moment of silence while he uncorks it with a flourish and lets Grissom take a small taste. Once the vintage is proclaimed to be excellent, Guido fills our glasses and gravitates to another table.

I move to take a sip, but Grissom's hand stills mine. "I think a toast is in order, don't you?"

"By all means." I place my glass on the table and wait for him to continue.

He aerates his wine, considering me as his hand shifts the stem of his glass in rhythmic circles. "'_The distance is nothing; it is only the first step that costs._'" He raises his glass a fixes me with a warm stare. "To taking the first step."

Our glasses touch, and the sound rings clearly over the crackling fire.

I take a sip of wine and consider my companion. His choice of quotes is illuminating. I guess for him it always has been about taking that first step. It's never been about his willingness to share a meal with me. It's been about his willingness to _be_ with me. For Grissom, saying 'yes' to dinner means saying 'yes' to the possibility of happily ever after. He can't do the former if he isn't willing to do the latter. I suppose neither one of us has ever been capable of doing anything in moderation. Why should dating be any different?

Still, I'm shocked at how relaxed he is tonight. Even considering how playful he's been since he asked me to breakfast, I expected awkwardness, or at least some element of hesitation. But the transition from professional to personal has been seamless.

My hand reaches across the table and covers his, our thumbs mingling in the firelight. "So, are we really going to talk about art?"

"If you like."

"And if I want to talk about something else?"

"We can do that, too."

I want to ask. I need to know. And yet, as I sit here staring at him, I wonder how much it matters. He's finally taking that first step. Is it really so important to know why?

I think back on years of miscommunications and missed opportunities and I realize that yes, it really is. Even if I don't really understand the answer, I'm doing myself a disservice if I don't ask the question. We aren't prone to sharing the inner workings of our minds, let alone our private feelings, but we have to start somewhere. I suppose I should thank my PEAP counselor for cluing me in to the importance of basic communication in human relationships.

"I need to understand something if this thing between us is going to move forward."

He nods, and I can't help but feel that the gesture is more fatalistic than encouraging.

"You have treated me like your own personal chew toy for the last five years. You pull me out when you want to play, then throw me in the corner when you get bored. Or scared. Or whatever."

He opens his mouth to speak and I wave him off. "Don't even try to deny it, Grissom, we both know it's true. Bottom line is that you did it, and I let you, which doesn't reflect highly on either one of us."

Surprisingly, he lets that pass. "And your question is what?"

"You've been leading up to tonight for months. The smiles, the veiled compliments, the innuendos. We've partnered on more cases in the last two quarters than in the prior two years. Which, incidentally, is when I first asked _you_ out to dinner and got shot down. What's changed? Why now?"

He takes a deep breath and looks at his watch. "Twenty minutes," he pronounces, then takes a deep drag of wine. "I wondered how long it would take you to bring this up. As usual, you've exceeded my expectations."

"I'll take that as a backhanded compliment."

He grins and fiddles nervously with the stem of his glass. For once I'm not going to overtalk. If fact, I'm not even going to talk. I will sit here all night and wait for an explanation.

"Honestly? I'm not sure. I woke up one day last year and it was like you weren't there. I saw you at work, but everything was so strained. You were so unhappy, so _angry_. I wanted to talk to you but I didn't even know where to start. And when I finally scraped up the courage to try, you were always off with Greg or Nick."

"We're just friends."

"I know that." He looks almost sad. "But we used to be friends, too."

He's interrupted by the arrival of our entrees. I've opted for the pasta puttanesca while Grissom has embraced his inner carnivore and selected a thick steak slathered in balsamic reduction. Conversation ceases for a moment while we load up on freshly cracked pepper and grated parmesan cheese.

I want to tell him that it's his fault we stopped being friends. That he's the one who pulled away and started avoiding _me_. But somehow it just seems like water under the bridge. I can't pretend to know what it must have been like for him to lose his hearing, so I can't blame him for retreating from the world for a while. We all deal with personal pain in different ways. I'm just glad that he conquered his internal demons decided to rejoin the living.

"Picking you up at the police station last summer was the beginning, I think. But it was your comment that you moved to Vegas for me that really did it."

That's unexpected. There have been so many moments over the years and he picks that one? Confused, I chew on my entree and wait for him to continue.

"I couldn't respond, nor could I get the conversation out of my mind." He stops eating and stares at me with complete concentration. "I haven't reciprocated, Sara, and for that I deeply apologize. I think I always knew why you'd come, but we never talked about it and after a while it seemed easier to believe that you were here for the Lab. That Vegas was a pit stop on your way to something even more prestigious."

I can't believe my dinner invitation didn't clue him in, but I suppose he managed to rationalize it away as some sort of post-explosion existential crisis while he was recovering from his surgery. He can be so freaking clueless when he wants to be. I grip his hand tightly. "I'm here to _stay_, Grissom."

He squeezes back. "Yes, I believe that you are."

"So that's why you came to my apartment when I got suspended? To reciprocate?"

"I felt responsible."

My hand snaps back. "I'm responsible for myself, Grissom. I have been for a very long time."

"No… I…" He takes a deep breath. "I care about you. That makes me feel responsible for you. When I heard about the confrontation with Catherine and Ecklie I wanted to help. I needed to help. I realized it was time that I… that I started…"

"Trying?"

He looks relieved. "Exactly."

"Well, if I haven't told you lately, you're succeeding."

His quirky grin is back in force and I think he might actually be blushing underneath all that facial hair. "When you accused me of being emotionally unavailable you were right. I don't want to be that way any more. God, Sara, I wish I could tell you how liberating it is to sit across a table from you and finally have this conversation."

This time he reaches for my hand and I meet him half way. I have this insane need to touch him, to feel his pulse beating in tune with mine. It is a curious, intimate feeling, and I sense that it will never leave me.

"I have a new toast."

He arches an eyebrow.

"To Stephen Jay Gould, may he rest in peace, and his theory of punctuated equilibrium. I think you are proof that evolution occurs in rapid bursts."

"Very apropos," he murmurs. "I will most certainly drink to that."

So we do. We then toast Greg, for trading shifts with me. And then Greg again, for having such excellent taste in coffee. And Brass, because the restaurant is so bad it's good.

Then I have an interesting thought. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

No reply. Just a small, secretive smile that is so delectably guilty I want to lean over and kiss it off his face.

"Are you?" I ask again. My voice is low and throaty and almost unrecognizable.

Admitting nothing, he adroitly changes the topic of conversation. "So, what _did_ you think of the books?"

Silly man. If he wants to play this game, I'll let him. "You know, you never told me where they all came from. Mike says they're quite valuable."

"You showed them to Mike?"

I give him a flirty grin. "You know how I like to suck up to my professors."

Now I'm getting his patented look of disdain.

"Oh, cheer up. He's a nice man and we've become good friends. He's besotted with a woman in Boston named Caroline so you have nothing to worry about."

Grissom grumbles and spears his steak.

"Did you study Italian art in college?"

"No, I was taught by my grandfather. I inherited his library when he passed away."

Grissom so rarely talks about his family, or references his personal history, that I put down my fork and just listen.

"My father wasn't in the picture, so my mother used to send me back east to visit her father at least once a year. She felt it was important that I have some form of positive male influence in my life."

"And he liked Italian art?"

"It was his life's passion. He was a professor emeritus at Yale and quite distinguished in his field. He authored the definitive textbook of his generation." Pride is evident in Grissom's voice and it's clear that he loved his grandfather very much.

I imagine him as a young boy, taking his cue from someone born at the turn of the century, and I wonder how much of his grandfather lives on in him. "What did he teach you?"

Grissom grins and looks skyward, considering my question, then returns his gaze to earth, to me. "_Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do_."

"Wait!" Awareness ripples through me, and I know that I've read that quote before. It's Leonardo Da Vinci. "You gave me two of his books. He wrote the biography on Da Vinci, and the primary sourcebook on Italian Renaissance Art. His name was Benjamin Clark."

Grissom nods, pleased as always at my ability to store knowledge. "He was a good man."

We linger over cappuccino and biscotti and Grissom tells me stories about his grandfather and his unquenchable desire for knowledge. It was he who instilled in Grissom the passion not only to learn, but to teach.

The absent father is clearly not open for discussion, but he eventually does talk of his mother and her own love of art. He tells me that she prefers modern art to 'moldy art,' and has focused her attention on works of the 20th century.

"She's retired now, but for many years she ran a gallery in Venice on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. I think my grandfather appreciated the irony of the location, even if she didn't." He looks at me strangely. "Am I amusing you?"

I guess he wants to know why I've developed a perpetual smirk. "I just find it really funny that you are descended from a bunch of liberal arts majors. I always figured you came from a clan of scientists. I had no idea you were such a rebel."

He waves a finger in my direction. "Never assume, Sara."

I smile mysteriously. "So you keep telling me."

Eventually the fire pits burn down and one by one the other patrons evaporate. I look around and realize we're the only customers left on the patio. "Guido is half-asleep over there. I think it's time to go."

The check was paid a while ago so we discreetly grab our belongings and head outside.

"Are you tired?" he asks when we reach his car.

"Please. Shift isn't even half over yet."

Grissom nods in understanding. "Would you like to go somewhere else? We can take a walk."

"We could. It's a bit chilly, though." The desert air is quite cool now that I'm not sitting by a fire, and I rub my bare arms for warmth.

Next thing I know he's taking his coat off and wrapping it around my shoulders. It's toasty warm and feels like a hug. He keeps his hands on the lapels, effectively trapping me in a warm cocoon, and I find myself leaning forward to the point that we are practically in an embrace. He smells faintly of charcoal and cappuccino. "We can go back to my place," I offer tentatively, not wanting to sound presumptuous. "I actually have an open bottle of Shiraz left over from dinner last night."

His trembling "okay" is reminiscent of my response to Greg when he offered to trade shifts last night. Eager, nervous, excited.

The ride home is silent, but comfortably so. I keep thinking that I should be freaking out about this, about the fact that I'm inviting Grissom into my home for completely non-professional reasons, but I'm too amped to care.

My apartment only has one light on, a small Tiffany, and by tacit agreement we leave it that way. Moonlight from the window blends with shades of gold and green, dappling the floor like a forest.

While I get the wine out Grissom circles my apartment like an animal marking its territory. He scans bookcases, photographs, magazines. At first I'm kind of confused by his behavior, but soon I get it. He's nervous, too.

I finish pouring what's left of the Shiraz into two glasses and park myself on the couch. "So, who would you want to paint your portrait?" I throw out for fun in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Warhol," he replies immediately, joining me on the sofa.

The thought of Warhol mass producing Grissom like a bunch of tomato soup cans is highly amusing. "Come on, be serious."

"Asked and answered. Now I get to ask you a question." He takes his time, thinking of something that's guaranteed to make me reveal the inner workings of my mind. "If you couldn't live in the present, when would you like to live and why?"

"In the future. As you may have noticed, I don't like to look back."

His faint frown suggests that he has something else in mind.

"What? Certainly you don't think I belong in 16th century Italy."

He shakes his head. "No, not at all, although I do imagine you would have appreciated the interest in science."

"Then…?"

"You've always struck me as an old soul, like me. We should have been born a hundred years ago, at least."

I take a moment to digest this thought, and I must say that I find it quite encouraging. Not so much because he sees me as an old soul, as I'm really a modern technology-loving science nerd, but because he considers it a foregone conclusion that we would still be together.

His hand reaches forward and cups my cheek, turning my face closer to the light, to him.

In all the years that I have known him he has never touched me this intimately. My pulse quickens, and I wonder if he can feel the erratic beat of my heart.

"I'd sacrifice the benefits of modern technology just to live in a time when Sargent could paint your portrait."

"Sargent? He painted society women." I'm trying to stay on topic, but all I want to do is lean into his hand and close my eyes. "Is that really how you see me? As some repressed Victorian society type bound in a corset and swathed in layers of black?"

The heat in his eyes is so ravenous I think that's exactly how he sees me. Furthermore, I think he'd like nothing more than to spend his days personally divesting me of such a ridiculously uncomfortable wardrobe. And oh, how I would like to let him.

"That's not what I meant," he continues in a businesslike tone, his hand falling away from my face. "You have a graceful neck and you look beautiful in black. Besides, you don't have a repressed bone in your body. I'm sure that women back then would have earned the right to vote a lot faster with you around."

Grissom's particular brand of flattery is an aphrodisiac. I think what is most endearing is the fact that he doesn't even seem to be aware that he's doing it. His compliments are delivered as scientific facts, as though there is a library of empirical evidence in his head and he's just relaying the obvious conclusion. By the time I've registered that he's said something nice he's already moved on to a completely different topic.

Tonight is no exception. I'm trying to process the fact that he's just called me beautiful, and he's talking about the suffrage movement in America. "How do you do that?"

"What?"

"Drop a bombshell like that and keep talking like you've just commented on the weather."

"What bombshell?"

"You… You…."

"I'm just stating the truth."

Now I'm just speechless.

"You're a beautiful woman, Sara. Hasn't anyone ever told you that before?"

"Just you," I mutter softly, thinking of an offhand comment at an ice rink so many years ago.

He's staring at me with an incredulous expression on his face. "No one has ever told you that before?" He actually seems angry. Not at me, but at the world.

"Does Greg count?"

If anything, my attempt at humor has just made him more upset. The fingers in his right hand have formed a fist around the stem of his glass.

"Grissom, it's okay." And it really is. If I wanted to be called beautiful, I'd put a lot more effort into my daily appearance. "Men call Catherine beautiful, not me. I've always been one of the guys and I prefer it that way. I'd much rather be complimented on my mind, and that's happened plenty of times."

He still sounds indignant. "You should be complimented on both."

"Well, that's why I have you."

"Yes, you do."

I think he actually just harrumphed, and I wonder if that's something he picked up from his elderly grandfather. It's just so funny, the thought of Grissom getting all bent out of shape because men don't tell me that I'm beautiful. Doesn't he get that I don't care? I just want attention from him?

"I don't know why you're smiling. This isn't funny."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes, actually, it is."

"No, actually, it's not."

I laugh out loud. This is such a _stupid_ conversation. "I love you, you know that?"

Grissom is looking at me like I just delivered a roundhouse kick straight into his solar plexus.

"Well, I mean, I love that you're protective and care about my delicate female sensibilities. It's very sweet. Endearing, really, considering that unlike you I actually carry my weapon and practice using it regularly at the firing range. If anyone in this relationship is going to get protective, it probably should be me. Not that we're in any kind of official relationship or anything." Damn it. Where's the Immodium! "Oh, look. We're out of wine. I'll get more."

I jump off the couch and move into the kitchen area so fast Grissom probably just got whiplash watching me make the transition. Like I need more wine. But hey, if I get Grissom to drink most of it, he won't even remember this conversation tomorrow.

I root around my bottom cabinet until I come across my secret stash. I don't have many bottles of good wine left, as I haven't been back to San Francisco much since I moved to Vegas, but there are a few. I think my first official date with Grissom is a worthy sacrifice. "Pinot or Syrah?" I call out to the living room.

"I'm fine, thanks." His voice is right behind me, so close that I can feel it reverberate down my spine.

I turn around and find him standing just a foot away. Amazing how such a large man can move so quietly. "Oh, um, okay. Do you want something else instead?"

He's got that predatory look again. "The feeling is mutual."

Wow. This is so much better than the comment he made in the car a few weeks ago about it being hard for me to find an intellectual equal. So much better. My mouth moves before my brain has a chance to catch up to it. "Does this mean you're finally going to kiss me?"

He steps toward me, smiling a positively devilish smile. "I'd like to, very much."

"A wise man once told me that being willing is not enough; we must do."

I guess that's all the invitation he needs. His fingers are on my shoulder, my throat. The pad of his thumb drifts up, then down, softly grazing the pulse point on my neck. I feel his warm breath across my cheek. The soft hairs of his beard caress my face.

His lips meet mine. They are tentative at first, chastely asking permission. He samples me slowly, deliberately, tasting the contours of my mouth. Our tongues touch lightly, then retreat. Again.

My arms rise of their own volition, clinging to his broad shoulders.

I surge against him and the kiss deepens. It's wetter, hotter than before. Our heads tilt, the angle shifts. He plunders my mouth as his hands grip my waist and pull me tautly against him.

He's hard, so incredibly hard, and the solid pressure of his arousal against my stomach is delicious. Unbridled lust unfurls inside me, coursing through my bloodstream. He is devouring me whole and it is not enough. I don't think it will ever be enough.

Hands which at first were tentative now map my body with carnal intent. Nails scrape my back and unhook my bra. Calloused fingers knead and cup my unfettered breasts. I gasp against his eager mouth. Our tongues duel and I press against him harder, harder.

My body is on fire. Extremities are heavy and swollen with need, pulsing in tune with my rapidly beating heart.

My mouth breaks free just long enough to beg him, "Please." My voice whimpers urgently. "I can't…. " I am beyond rational thought. There is only need. And want. If he doesn't take me now I will explode.

For once I'm glad that my apartment is the size of a shoebox and my bed is only a few feet away.

There isn't time for ceremony. I rip at my shirt and bra, dropping them to the floor in a heap. My skirt follows shortly thereafter and soon all I am wearing is a black lace thong. I move to take it off but I am stopped by the strangled sound of Grissom's voice behind me.

I turn and find him naked, too. He is magnificent, and the heat in his eyes is nuclear.

He pounces. There is no other word for it. We fall to the bed in a tangle of naked limbs and all I can think is that this is the man who hurled coffee pots and threw Eddie up against a wall. He is feral, confident and brutally male. I shut my eyes and writhe beneath him, keening as he rips at my thong and rakes his fingers through my wet fur.

"Look at me," he urges.

I can't. It's too much…. I can't….

"Sara." My name is a curse, a benediction.

I comply and encounter raw, untamed need. His eyes have never been this bright, this blue. I am lost in their depths. Our lips meet again only this time the kiss is gentle, soothing.

He slips inside me and I wail at the sense of completion. He begins to move slowly, then with greater assurance. My hips rise to meet his and our rhythm becomes fierce, primal.

My nails dig into his back like grappling hooks.

At first I could not look him in the eye. Now, I cannot look away. With each pounding thrust he imprints himself on me further. No man has ever possessed me so completely. I am begging, pleading, yearning for something that I'm not even sure I understand.

My walls grip him like a thunderclap and soon he collapses on top of me, completely spent, panting. Our kisses taper off, becoming soft, slow, chaste. He murmurs something unintelligible, presses one last kiss to my brow, and rolls away.

We lie on our backs, holding hands, staring at the ceiling. Time expands and our breathing slows. My heartbeat returns to normal.

I am tired and sore and scraped and raw and I feel fabulous. I look over at my boss, my friend, my…lover. "I feel thoroughly debauched."

He smiles, weakly lifts my hand and busses the pulse point on my wrist.

"For the record, I've never had sex on the first date. Actually, I don't even think I've done it on the second or third. I don't date much and when I do I don't just... Well, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea." I'm overtalking again, but this time it's not due to nervousness. I don't think I'll ever feel nervous around him again.

He lets me ramble, chuckling as he continues to trail a line of soft kisses down the length of my arm.

Then it occurs to me. "We didn't use…"

We regard each other with twin expressions of horror.

"What if…"

He sobers up quickly. "We'll face it together."

I roll on top of his chest and lay my head down over his heart. He absently plays with my hair, combing through the damp waves with his fingers. The faint aroma of lemons wafts through the air.

"Do you think…?" He asks quietly.

I do the mental math. "Maybe. It's possible, but not probable."

I think about the concept of a baby Grissom, and the fact that little embryonic cells could be multiplying as I speak. The prospect is not as terrifying as I would have thought. "Would you be upset?" I whisper against his sternum.

He drops a kiss on the top of my head and wraps his arms around me. "I would be honored."

We share a shocked smile. I don't think either one of us could have predicted the outcome of our evening, yet in retrospect I don't know how it could have ended any other way. Like I said, we don't do anything in moderation.

If it's a boy, I think Gregory Michael Grissom has a nice ring to it.

FIN


End file.
